


came up soft like daybreak

by brinnanza



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Episode Related, Episode Tag, M/M, Seventh Skate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 16:21:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9557003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: Because if he lets himself think about it --reallythink about it and what it means for their relationship, both on and off the ice -- he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to think of anything else. It will swallow him up until he’s drowning in what if’s and the terrifying possibility that all of his dreams might actually come true.





	

**Author's Note:**

> There can never be too many episode seven codas, right??? Title is from "Comfort" by Deb Talan.

Yuuri’s silver medal glints in the arena’s fluorescent lights, and the adrenaline surge of competition that had been keeping him upright after nearly 36 hours without sleep is swiftly replaced by the endorphin rush of triumph. It makes him a little giddy, like he’s about to break into mad, delighted giggles amid the camera flashes and sports commentary in ten different languages. It’s not his first medal -- not even his first silver medal, considering prior to last year’s embarrassing Grand Prix Final, he’d been widely considered Japan’s top male singles skater -- but this one feels different somehow.

The crowd and the cameras and the boards are a messy blur without his glasses on, but Yuuri remembers where Victor was standing last, can pick him out like a beacon in a dark sea. Yuuri keeps his eyes there, on the smear he knows is Victor. The flowers tucked in the crook of his arm, the medal, the warm flush coloring his cheeks, it’s all for Victor.

Maybe that’s the difference: that he’d won this medal for Victor. That he’d won this medal _with_ Victor. Skating for its own sake had been plenty of motivation in the past, but in the last seven months, it’s like he’s become a new person, or maybe just the person he was always supposed to be.

They get the signal to leave center ice, and Phichit whips around, pulling his phone out of god knows where. “Selfie!” he declares, and Chris slings an arm around Yuuri’s neck to draw him into frame. Phichit snaps a few shots and then pins his flowers under one arm and uploads one, his thumbs flying over the keyboard.

“Congrats, you two,” Chris says while Phichit is typing. Phichit looks up from his phone to beam at him, and Chris winks at the two of them before heading towards the boards. Yuuri starts to follow, but before he gets more than a meter, Phichit tucks his phone away and throws both arms around him, enveloping him in a tight hug.

“Congratulations, Yuuri!” Phichit says in his ear, a brilliant grin audible in his tone. 

Yuuri returns the hug without hesitation, affection blooming sun-warm in his chest. “What for? You’re the one that won,” he says, so proud of his friend that his own wide smile is beginning to make his cheeks hurt.

Phichit leans back from him, his hands still on Yuuri’s shoulders. “Silver is still a great accomplishment,” he says seriously, and then he lifts one eyebrow, turning his smile into a smirk. “But I wasn’t talking about your medal.”

“Then what--” _Oh_. Yuuri’s lips still tingle where Victor kissed him, and he touches his face absently. He’s half-convinced he hallucinated the kiss, that it was just a product of overexertion and lack of sleep and his own delusional fantasies. He’s sure Instagram has about a thousand photos that will beg to differ (several of which Phichit has probably reposted to his own account).

Phichit turns his smile back up to dazzling, and Yuuri puts his hands up defensively because he’s sure -- “Oh, no, that wasn’t -- he didn’t mean it like that! It wasn’t like that -- It was just -- Well, you know Westerners.”

Phichit puts an arm around his shoulders and starts moving toward the boards. He tips his head toward Yuuri conspiratorially and says, “Are you sure about that?”

Yuuri doesn’t answer. He had very determinedly put the kiss out of mind to ponder over later when there weren’t a hundred cameras pointed at his face. Because if he lets himself think about it -- _really_ think about it and what it means for their relationship, both on and off the ice -- he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to think of anything else. It will swallow him up until he’s drowning in what if’s and the terrifying possibility that all of his dreams might actually come true.

Victor and Celestino are waiting for them at the gap in the boards, but Yuuri doesn’t have time for more than a shy glance up at Victor through his lashes before getting mobbed by reporters. 

Victor glides into place beside him, his arm tight around Yuuri’s shoulders. Yuuri tries to focus on the questions being shouted at him so he can answer, but Victor is warm against his side and his initial euphoria is starting to fade. Yuuri can feel the crash incoming, as sure as the tide against the shore.

Fortunately, Victor is just as skilled with the press as he is on the ice. He slips around questions gracefully, meeting any inquiries about the kiss with an enigmatic smile and a swift change of subject. He lets go of Yuuri so he can gesture emphatically while he raves about Yuuri’s quad flip, and then he announces that Yuuri has had a very long day and has worked very hard, so any more questions will have to wait until later.

He whisks Yuuri off to the locker room to change. It’s quiet -- Chris and Phichit are still with the press and the other skaters have already changed, and the noise from the arena is muted. Their footsteps echo off of the lockers, and for a moment, Yuuri is reminded of the parking garage, of his passing storm and resulting calm.

A wave of exhaustion rises up and threatens to bowl him over, and he sits down heavily on a bench. “Oh, wow,” he says. “I am _really_ tired.”

Victor smiles at him, the soft pleased one he reserves for Yuuri. “Let’s get you to bed, hmm?”

Yuuri almost asks him then, what he meant by the kiss. Victor’s expression is so fond that Yuuri is almost brave enough, but then he’s interrupted by a jaw-cracking yawn. It’s probably for the best -- Yuuri isn’t sure he wants to know the answer anyway.

It takes him longer than it should to change out of his costume, and he almost falls asleep in the shower, but then Victor is guiding him out of the arena, his palm warm and solid against the small of Yuuri’s back, Yuuri’s bag hoisted over his shoulder.

Yuuri tries to put on a smile for the camera flashes going off around him, but there’s a headache lurking behind one eye and he keeps stumbling over his own feet. Which is embarrassing behavior for a Grand Prix Event Silver Medalist, but Yuuri thinks he might actually be too tired to care.

The chilly Beijing night air perks him up a little bit, but only enough to clear some of the cotton wool from his head, leaving him with room for entirely too many thoughts as they walk to the cab stand. The same old insecurities come drifting back in -- that silver won’t be good enough for the great Victor Nikiforov, that Yuuri is fooling himself by pretending he’s worthy of Victor’s devotion. That at any moment, Victor will go, leaving Yuuri burned and empty, fading back into obscurity.

It’s easier, somehow, on the ice to convince himself that he’s enough. He’s not pretending to be katsudon anymore, but he’s not sure it’s quite Katsuki Yuuri either. It’s something in between, an almost-Yuuri who knows how to be suave and seductive and everything Victor needs.

And off the ice, he’s just… Yuuri. Who never knows the right thing to say and lets his nerves knock him down again and again.

Victor touches his arm, jerking Yuuri out of his reverie, and nods at the cab that has pulled up to the curb. The thoughts slip to the back of his mind as he climbs into the cab after Victor, but the hot buzz of anxiety still thrums under his skin.

The back of the taxi is warm and dark except for the flashes of streetlights that filter in through the windows. The radio is playing soft music, the volume turned down to a quiet murmur, and when Victor leans back against the seat after giving the driver the address, he is close enough that his arm is pressed against Yuuri’s.

It’s a short ride back to the hotel, just a few blocks really, but Yuuri’s eyes slip closed. A moment later, Victor is touching his face with gentle fingertips and saying in a quiet, faintly amused voice, “Yuuri, we’re here.”

Yuuri picks his head up from where he has leaned it against Victor’s shoulder in his sleep. He might have been embarrassed, but sleep is clinging to him and making everything still, so he just blinks up at Victor and follows him out of the cab.

Victor keeps an anchoring arm around him all through the hotel lobby, in the elevator, and down the hall to Yuuri’s room. Yuuri’s thoughts seem to hover just out of reach, like they’re tied to helium balloons, and it’s increasingly difficult to keep his eyes open, but Victor’s solid presence keeps him tethered.

They come to a stop in front of Yuuri’s door. He blinks at it for a moment, the hall lights uncomfortably bright, and then he says, “Oh -- keys. Uh…” He pats his pockets, struggling to remember where he put his wallet.

Victor laughs, and Yuuri can feel the vibrations where they are pressed together. “I’ve got it,” Victor says. “Can you stand for just a moment?”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, and Victor steps just far enough away to pull out the wallet from his pocket and pluck out the second key card to Yuuri’s room. Everything is moving just slightly, like the whole building is swaying or -- no, no it’s Yuuri that’s swaying, unsteady on his feet.

Victor gets the door open and then his arm is around Yuuri once again, leading him into the room and pulling the door shut behind them. The lights are off, but a strip of yellow light from the street spills in through a gap in the curtains, just enough to see by.

Yuuri lets Victor maneuver him, his eyes slipping closed again. He feels the back of his legs hit the bed and he sits down -- he hadn’t noticed they were still moving.

“Almost there,” Victor says. With an effort, Yuuri forces his eyes open to find Victor kneeling in front of him, hands on Yuuri’s arms. “Can you stay with me another moment? Then you can sleep.”

Yuuri hums a response and Victor gives him that soft smile again, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He helps Yuuri out of his coat and then leans down to take off his shoes. There is some distant part of Yuuri’s mind protesting that he is perfectly capable of undressing himself, but Yuuri is too tired to do anything but ignore it.

Victor takes both of Yuuri’s hands in his and pulls him to his feet. A wordless groan of protest escapes Yuuri’s throat, eliciting a quiet chuckle from Victor, but Victor just pulls him around to the side of the bed so he can crawl underneath the covers.

It feels so good to be horizontal that Yuuri is almost dizzy with it. He just lies there for a moment, feeling the spin of the planet or maybe just his head as Victor pulls the blankets up over him. Yuuri opens his eyes so he can give Victor a tired smile, hoping his gratitude is evident in his gaze.

Victor huffs out a laugh and brushes a lock of hair from Yuuri’s forehead. Yuuri can’t help leaning into his touch a little before Victor withdraws his hand to pluck the glasses from Yuuri’s face and set them on the bedside table.

“Goodnight, sleepy head,” Victor says, and then he turns to leave.

In the morning, Yuuri knows, he will have a thousand very good reasons for not asking. Things will continue as they are, vague and undefined; incredible, but too nebulous for comfort. He doesn’t think he wants to know, but at the same time he _has_ to, the unanswered question still prickling on his skin.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Yuuri darts out a hand to grab Victor’s wrist. “Wait.”

Victor turns back to him, brows knitted. “Of course,” he says. “Is there something else you need?”

“I--” Yuuri starts, and then the rest of the words just slip out. “Why did you kiss me?”

The smile doesn’t budge from Victor’s lips, but there is something inscrutable in his eyes. “I told you. I wanted to surprise you.”

Yuuri might have accepted that answer once, before he’d gotten to know Victor as more than just a celebrity, but it’s not good enough now, not with everything that has passed between them. “But what did it mean?”

Victor lets out a long, slow breath. “What do you want it to mean?” he says, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Anxiety flares up hot and acidic in Yuuri’s stomach, and he scoots up on the bed in a futile attempt to escape it. He swallows hard and then leaps, bracing for impact. “Whatever the truth is,” he says. It will either be a perfect quad or a broken ankle, and there’s no way to know until he lands.

Silence stretches out between them. “I just wanted to,” Victor says eventually. “I was tired of not kissing you.” He ducks his head, the silver curtain of his hair falling across his eyes, and in the wan light, Yuuri can just make out the blush dusting his cheeks.

It’s just like his first quad, Yuuri thinks distantly, how the extra rotation seemed to make him hang in the air for an eternity before coming down. He didn’t know it was possible to just _keep falling_ , for the ice to melt away and leave him plunging toward nothing.

“You… wanted to?” Yuuri repeats faintly.

“Yes,” Victor says. “Does that surprise you?”

“Yes!” Yuuri says, because he’s been at least a little bit in love with Victor Nikiforov for approximately half his life, almost as long as he’s loved the ice, but he’s still just Yuuri, just another run-of-the-mill skater who somehow managed to trick the world’s greatest skating icon into being his coach. “Just -- why?”

Victor studies him intently for a long moment, gaze piercing the way it is during practice, when he’s looking for the cracks in Yuuri’s routines. “You really don’t see it, do you,” he says like it’s a revelation.

Yuuri squirms uncomfortably against the headboard. “See what?”

“What I see.” Victor leans toward him, reaching out with gentle fingertips to touch Yuuri’s face, to trace the line of his jaw.

Yuuri’s face flushes hot, fire in the wake of Victor’s touch. “I’m not--” _Special_ , he thinks. _Worthy._ “I don’t--”

“You are,” Victor murmurs. “You do.” And then he closes the gap between them and presses a soft, chaste kiss to Yuuri’s mouth.

Yuuri falls and falls and his stomach is doing quad flips as the wind whistles past his ears. If the sickening crack of bone on ice is what awaits him, then he never wants to land.

Victor pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against Yuuri’s, his breath ghosting over Yuuri’s lips. “Okay?”

“Okay,” says Yuuri, his eyes still closed. He’s starting to fade again, strung out on the rise and fall of adrenaline. 

Victor starts to move away, to leave him to the sleep he so desperately needs, but Yuuri grabs hold of his wrist again. Off the ice, it’s so difficult to ask for, never mind demand, Victor’s attention, but he needs it all the same. “Stay?” he says, and he means _in this room_ and _by my side_ and _always_.

Victor says, “Of course,” and it sounds like _forever_.

**Author's Note:**

> There is sorta kinda art for this [here](http://brinnanza.tumblr.com/post/156336308371/yuuri-definitely-100-falls-asleep-on-victors) on my tumblr if you are interested.


End file.
